


Lard Actually: A Christmas Weight Gain Story

by justanotherworthlessweirdo



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding Kink, Meta, Multi, One Shot, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29924412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherworthlessweirdo/pseuds/justanotherworthlessweirdo
Summary: A portrait of a quarantined Christmas, from the perspective of five feedists. Rather bittersweet.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Lard Actually: A Christmas Weight Gain Story

**Author's Note:**

> Originally uploaded to Deviantart and Tumblr on Christmas Day 2020. Set that same day.

_Uploading on Christmas Day? What a sad fucker, am I right? But I finished this days ago. You’re the ones reading it today: I have other things to do. All the same, you shouldn’t be ashamed. Instead, I shall be ashamed on your behalf. That leaves you free to try and fap, fuelled by depressingly desperate dreams of passion and pudge. That’s all any of us can do today, really._

It’s Christmas Day, and Georgia is alone.

She’s used to it by now, of course. Nine months of quarantine has forced her to grow more accustomed to loneliness. It’d been tough, but then again, she thought slyly, she’d grown in other ways as well. She liked to think she’d grown as a person, she’d certainly grown her online profile and, best of all, she’d undeniably grown her body.

A lean, trim exercise addict less than a year ago, with a love of lifting and lunges, the closure of gyms had forced Georgia out of her Lycra and into increasingly-snug sets of underwear. It’d been debilitating at first, watching her shoulders shrink and her stomach soften, but the burning in her crotch couldn’t be denied. That hardbody hadn’t been her, she could see that now. Spending all day lounging on the couch, alternating between studying and snacking: that was the life for her, the life she’d always dreamt of leading. The flabby figure resulting from it? That was her _real_ body. She was meant to get massive. She was destined to become Girl With Gut.

“Hello, lovely people!” Georgia addressed her camera, “It’s time for my Christmas Dinner!”

Recording clips on Christmas Day? It was pathetic, Georgia knew, but it was something to do. It would keep her busy, keep her occupied enough and aroused enough that she could forget her loneliness. At least, she hoped. She started every one of her videos with her signature smile, but this time, it had to be faked, and not for the first time.

“So, I know it’s not very festive,” she continued, “but I’ve got some Taco Bell here because as you guys know I am totally addicted…”

She jiggled her belly for emphasis. It still seems surreal to Georgia for her to weigh over 200lbs, but it was surreal in the best possible way. Fantastical, even. Her plump, pillowy breasts make her feel sexy. Her big, bulging bottom makes her feel womanly. Her soft, blubbery tummy makes her feel decadent. Despite the trashy red-and-white lingerie and dime-store Santa hat, Georgia knows she’s a goddess. No, more than that: she is GWG, Girl With Gut, masturbation fantasy to thousands of feeders. Sure, most of them are incels, gleefully pleasuring themselves to her pirated pornos whilst whining on archaic chatrooms that she’s gaining too slowly, but today, she’d have to try and forget about them. The entitled assholes, the condescending fatphobes insisting she was killing herself, all of them needed to be ignored. Today, her fans are all she has, and though she wonders whether it’s selfish of her to expect them to buy clips today, let alone flock to Curvage for a live Q&A, Georgia knows she needs them to.

Anything to keep her busy.

_1.69 million dead, and I am writing kink fic. My country falling further into feudalism, and I write kink fic. The forces burn crosses, and all I do is write. I am everything I hate: the new Roth, the new Coetzee, bemoaning the length of my dick as the apocalypse ensues. To distract me from my self-loathing, I give myself a gift; self-indulgence is all I know. Here is my gift, my surprise, a sentence you never expected to read: “Meanwhile, in Wigan…”_

If you’d have asked Tim were he imagined spending his next Christmas last year, he’d never have thought of a one-bedroom flat in Wigan.

And yet, here he was.

Alone.

In Wigan.

Tim had been drawn to the town by its low rents and, more importantly, its charmingly-ridiculous name, but since being trapped there by the pandemic it’d come to represent everything he hated about his country. A town no-one, not even the esteemed Sir Ian McKellen, would admit to coming from for fear of classism; a people driven to Brexiteering and bigotry by decades of denationalisation and disappointment; a government that had long forgotten about the world north of Birmingham. Every high street half-empty, every flat a fire hazard: nothing noteworthy had happened in Wigan since the Latics won the FA Cup seven years ago, and even they’d gone bankrupt recently. That was Wigan: the ultimate symbol of British failure since Orwell wrote his Road. And Tim was trapped there. Alone.

His phone buzzed.

“R U doing ok?”

It was FeederGoddess, or Thea, scourge of waistlines the world over and every tubbos worst nightmare. Tim had met her on Tumblr through their similar sexual preferences, but they’d found they had so much in common besides those, to the point that Tim had genuinely come to think of her as a friend. It was nice of her to be concerned, honestly heart-warming, but is he doing okay?

He was alone. In Wigan. He had no loving family, not that he’d ever had one. He has no friends to give gifts to, no-one to care for, no-one to stuff and snuggle and spoil… He’s sprawled uselessly on his bed, flailing as he fruitlessly tries to jerk off to Girl With Gut’s new video like the loser he is… Is he doing okay?

“Yh, I’m ok. Hope you are too.”

Tim sighed, and saw that Girl With Gut was hosting a live Q&A later. He never normally took part in such things, he got sick of the horny idiots asking the same questions over and over, but hey, he figured, he might as well join in today.

It was something to do.

_You Yanks think you’re unlucky. Our aristocracy never ended, and though you imagine them like Lord Grantham, they’re more like Lord Farquad. They are as arrogant as they are incompetent: we exist to make them feel taller. They’ll rob us, rape us, and sell us the record of their exploits. We will never see a liberal government, or a Liberal government for that matter. But at least, isolated though it is, there is some money present in my country; now, we turn to Greece…_

“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…”

Wham. Fucking Wham. Thea hated Wham, hated them more than she hated tomato soup, which was saying a lot. Sure, it was sad that Georgie died so young, and he’d been an amazing voice for the gay community during AIDS… despite not having an amazing voice. Or any musical credibility. But, alas, Thea had used up all her skips on Mario Frangoulis covers of “timeless Christmas classics”, so Wham would have to remain.

Then again, Thea supposed, it was fitting. Last Christmas: a melodramatic wail of despair and proof of the failure neoliberalism. If the song referred to a specific Christmas, then that Christmas had to be the 25th December 2020.

“Yh. I’m okay. Hope you are too.”

Ninetales99, or Tim: easily the nicest male feeder Thea had ever spoken to, although that wasn’t saying much. Just as he wasn’t saying much; behind his brevity, Thea knew he was as miserable as she was.

As alone as she was.

Thea sighed. Why couldn’t she be cooking dinner for two instead of one? Why couldn’t she be resting her head on a plump, doughy belly instead of a pillow? Why couldn’t she be funnelling eggnog down a fat boy’s throat instead of drinking away her depression? Why wasn’t she being hugged?

“PLINK, PLONK… PILNKY, PLINKY, PLINK-PLONK-PLONK…”

Fuck. Now it was the worst part: that infinitely irritating piano bridge, so repetitive as to seem incessant. Just like every day since the pandemic started. Every day she was alone.

“PLINKY PLONKY PLONK…”

So, why was she alone? Because the rest of the world didn’t give a shit about her. Because her country was the EU’s embarrassing ginger-haired stepchild, leeching of the bank of mum and dad. Most of all, because money talked, and money said business had to carry on as usual, and despite Greece having no money of its own to listen to, it obeyed regardless.

“PLINKY PLONKY PLONK…”

Thus, Thea was alone on Christmas Day, scrolling endlessly through Tumblr in the vague hope of forgetting her misery. Piggyboi64 had uploaded several pics today; Thea tried to imagine herself with a tubbo like him, sat on a soft, spherical stomach, letting her small frame sink into the surrounding flab… But she wasn’t. She never would. The Fates had other plans for her, and whatever those plans involved, it was apparently essential for them that she stay alone.

_It is cold here, but we have no snow. Besides, whenever we do, it is the ugly kind of snow, the slushy, clogs-up-roads type, stained with grit, tar and piss, and it never comes at Christmas. My heater is broken, and I dream of Piggyboi64; of a land down under, where women blow and men blunder…_

Christmas had been and gone, but Shane was still shitfaced.

It was his response to everything since the pandemic began. Memories of Tom? Fosters. Morrison being a moron, loosening restrictions for the sake of his sponsors then acting shocked when the cases started rolling in again? Fosters. Crippling self-doubt, internalised homophobia, existential dread? Fosters. It wasn’t even good beer, but it was all he could get his mitts on, thanks to his nation’s strange obsession with stockpiling. However, weak as it was, it’d certainly had an impact on Shane: not only had it caused his already gigantic gut to balloon this last weeks, it also left him almost completely unable to recall the Christmas that’d just passed.

He remembered eating, but what was it he’d eaten…? A lot. He’d eaten a lot; that was all he could remember, though he could easily discover the specifics were he so inclined to shift through the detritus of wrappers and cans covering his carpet. He’d watched Die Hard, he’d probably watched porn too knowing him, and he’d… cried? Yes; he remembered crying, but couldn’t remember why. Crying, like a baby.

“Really hope you’re okay luv!”

Despite his homosexuality Shane didn’t mind attention from female feeders, especially ones as nice as FeederGoddess. Maybe he was only wank-fuel for her, but she at least seemed to care, and in these moments, that was enough. Not enough for him to talk about his feelings mind. Nobody was that kind… Nobody, except Tom.

But Tom was gone.

Tom was disgusted.

Shane was disgusting.

Shane was alone.

“Yh, I’m fine,” he typed back, breezily, “hope you liked those belly pics!”

_So. We are all alone. Well, I’m not; I’m spending this year with family, though considering how much they fucked me up I wish I was alone. But in a sense, in a tenuous, Obi-Wan-esque sense, we are all alone, from a certain point of view. We are all alone in loving lard, in seeing beauty were the world refuses to; we alone are the most deplorable of perverts, only permissible on TLC freakshows. And in that sense too, we are all together._

_Because that’s the wonderful thing about fat. It grows. It expands, it swallows up space, it fills in every crack, every crevice that I can squeeze into. It can grow, grow enough to reach anywhere. To touch anywhere._

_I know. It’s stupid. It’s corny, Capra-corny. It’s crass. God knows I don’t believe a word of it myself, as I lie naked on shrivelled, stained bedsheets, scoffing chocolate whilst thumbing through 4.48 Psychosis. I am living proof literary kleptomaniacs survive; I am Kevin, I am the Rainmaker, I am everything any decent person should hate and I know that for a fact. But I’m also amazing. I’m told. For some incalculable reason._

_Consider this my counter to such claims. No, more a… reversal. Maybe my shrink is right, maybe I do deserve love, but all of you, reading this? You definitely do. Undisputedly. The comfort all of you have given me this year is evidence enough of that, as is your obliviousness to how much it has helped me, and how much I am undeserving of help._

_So yes, if you’re reading this the day it was uploaded, you are probably lonely this Christmas. But there will come a Christmas when you won’t be. And I need you all to believe that for me, believe it like New York believes in Santa at the end of Elf…_

_Believe it for me, because I find it impossible to._


End file.
